by James Darke
Monk himself had been woken early. A gentle rapping at the door of his room, and a figure appearing, shadowy behind a shielded candle. Outside he could see that it was still full dark, and that the wind was rising.
It had been the landlord, flustered at having to disturb such an important guest. Constantly bowing and hissing and whispering so that it was sometime before Monk realised that the man was saying there was a messenger beneath with news of great importance.
Tucking his embroidered night-shirt about his shrunk shanks, Monk padded across the cold floor of the room, turning for a last glance at the warmth
of his bed.
Once he heard the message, he went straight back to his room. Intent on dressing and rousing the Mendozas. But he seemed little disturbed by it, even whistling a jaunty tune to himself, turning to smile again at his double bed, and at the figure hunched beneath the covers.
Captain John Ferris from Hertford,’ he said quietly to himself. At last.’
The three ex-soldiers took it in turn to ride ahead as scouts, going into each hamlet and asking for news of the Witchfinder and his crew. It wasn’t difficult.
Within three days they had closed the gap so that they were only scant hours behind. Hawks had gone first, coming back at a gallop.
‘They say he’s bound for the coast, Captain.’
Ferris had tried several times to persuade them to cease using his military title, but they seemed happier with it and he now let it lie.
‘Where?’
‘Romney they say. There’s witchery in the Cinque Ports and he goes there to burn it out.’
Ferris nodded. The trail had been long, but at last it was nearing its end. ‘Where does he sleep this night?’
‘Next place is called Steepleford. That’s where he was for breaking his noon fast this very day.’
Ferris looked at the sun, coasting serenely through a calm sky with only a scattering of round, white clouds scudding high above their heads. A hawk circled slowly, riding a current of warm air, wings spread in effortless flight.
‘It will be dark in four or five hours. I fear me that Morgana’s cast shoe is worsening. She favours that right rear leg. How far then to this next village?’
Hawks sniffed. Wiping his hand across his sweating forehead, easing the narrow cord that held the patch over his eye. ‘Steepleford is an hour. There is a smithy there. And then they say that where Monk sleeps is called Cold Easter. Another three hours off.’
‘We should come at them at dawn, while they sleep,’ suggested Ferris. ‘Seek out where they rest. The inn. And then come upon them.’
‘Butcher them in their beds, Captain,’ said Ford, grinning wolfishly at the thought of an easy slaughter.
‘We must look out for Mistress Mary, men. Take the brothers at will. But spare me Monk. Mary and Joseph, but that man is mine!’
Steepleford was a tumbledown hamlet and it took a mixture of bribery and threats to persuade the blacksmith to rouse himself and get his fire burning. Ferris hissed impatiently through his teeth she realised that the shoeing of the mare was likely to take well towards dark, allowing for the time for the charcoal to heat properly.
‘let us go on, Captain,’ suggested Hathaway. ‘We can spy out the land and meet you at some place.’
‘Perhaps.’ Tapping the smith on his shoulder. ‘Is there a good meeting-place ‘twixt here and Cold Easter?’
‘There be a ruined mansion. A mile this side of Cold Easter. Men say it was once home to a lady-in-waiting to the Virgin Queen herself. Lays back on the right, in a grove of withies, near a pond.’
Ferris nodded. ‘Then it will be there. I will eat here, and be with you before midnight. Let one of you seek out our prey.’
The three men looked at each other. ‘Aye, Captain,’ replied Hawks. ‘Then all will be ready for the trap to spring at dawn.’
The blacksmith had been drinking heavily before noon and was slow and careless. Once Morgana screamed in pain as he brushed a red-hot length of iron against her flank and it took all of Ferris’ strength to hold her and prevent her from killing the clumsy fool.
Even with John’s help it was nearly three hours before the arduous labouring was completed. The man’s wife brought out some fresh bread and sliced mutton, cold and tasty, washed down with good spring water. Dusk was riding in from the rolling hills to the west when he finally set out again after his three friends.
Ford had killed a goat.
As they walked their horses along the ill-kept path, between high hedges, all three men heard what sounded to them like the distant beating of a slack-skinned drum. Sonorous and hollow. But it faded and finally died away altogether.
It was a short while after that they heard the faint tinkling of a bell, and round a corner of the lane came a large white goat, dragging a chain and a round-ended stake behind it. Around its shaggy neck was a tin bell.
Hold my horse,’ Ford said, swinging from the saddle, hand on his sabre. It was a similar weapon to that carried by Ferris. With a slightly-curving blade, sharp-tipped, brass-hilted. As the goat came closer Ford drew it from the scabbard in a whisper of steel. Hefting it up to his left shoulder, ready for the back handed cut.
The sabre hissing down in a clean arc, slicing through the animal’s neck in one blow. As the head dropped the bell came loose and rolled in the dirt by Ford’s feet.
Meat for tonight,’ he grinned. ‘Better eatin’ than the Captain, I’ll warrant.’
* * *
The fire crackled merrily, casting a bright glow across the clearing. Evening had slipped into night, and the land was quiet. When the men arrived at the agreed meeting-place the small lake had been seething with life, frogs croaking, ducks settling for their sleep. Now all was still.
The ruined house was settled in a pile of its own bricks, low in a hollow, like a dead nun, the moonlight black and white over its angles and shadows. The willows were ranged all along the margin of the water, the light breeze setting their feathery branches rustling and rubbing against each other.
Ford was sleeping, wrapped in a long brown blanket, mouth open, snoring. Twitching occasionally as some dream seized him. Hawks was in charge of the cooking, sitting on his haunches by the fire, turning the meat on the makeshift spit, licking his fingers as the fat crackled out and bubbled from the goat’s flesh. It had been a long time since he had eaten goat and he could almost taste the delicate flavour.
His mouth watered.
Hathaway had offered to go scouting, leaving them on foot a half hour earlier. Heading towards the village of Cold Easter, picking his way carefully through the marshy surround to the lake.
They expected him back in a couple of hours.
By then the meat should be well cooked and ready for gnawing.
Hathaway was proud of his skill at tracking. He paused as he caught a glimpse of the flickering lights of the first of the cottages in the village. Licking his. lips and wondering whether he’d dare to go in and
order himself a mug of ale before carrying out the rest of his mission. As a veteran soldier he knew only too well that ale clouded his judgement. And with friends depending on him, he didn’t want to find himself suddenly in the situation of discovering that his one mug of beer had mysteriously become a dozen, and that his legs would not support him and he was on his back gazing up at the moon.
Hathaway didn’t want that at all.
John Ferris had slowed Morgana to a walk soon after leaving Steepleford. A canter along the moonlit lane and then a swift gallop, just to check the shoe was properly fitted. Then to a walk. The tracks were deeply rutted by cart-wheels and there was no point in risking the mare with a bad tumble in the night.
The three Troopers would wait for him. He trusted them that much. And he also knew that they would have the news of Monk’s whereabouts.
‘Robert Monk,’ he said, tasting the syllables. ‘Monk.’ He could almost feel his blade sliding through the Witchfinder’s belly, so often had he imagined the scene.
And within the space of this night, it would all come to pass.
Ford had taken over charge of the roasted goat, while Hawks slept. The fire had sunk lower and the ex-soldier threw on a little more of the dry wood that they’d collected at dusk. Looking up through the dome of trees to try and make out where the moon lay.
‘Late. Hathaway will be here soon. Less he has yielded to temptation and gone to the alehouse. If he has I’ll slit his bastard’s gizzard!’
Hathaway had managed to creep in easily, unseen, picking his way through the dry summer grass, snaking in and out of the low fences that straggled along the rear of the cottages. The inn was furthest down the street, and he reached its neat garden. Pausing before stepping quietly in towards the cluster of outbuildings in its yard. The moon came and went.
John Ferris felt the tension easing from him as the moment for action grew nearer. His temper cooling as he readied himself for the brief combat that would cleanse his memory of his parents’ butchery.
‘Henry. That you, Henry?’
Ford peered into the shifting ripples of darkness beneath the willows. With the gentle wind still blowing it was hard to hear anyone approaching, but he was sure he’d heard the brittle crack of a branch snapping beneath someone’s weight.
‘Hathaway! Come on, man. Captain’ll be here right soon.’
Hawks stirred in his sleep, muttering something inaudible, then rolling himself back into his blanket, his hands between his thighs for warmth.
The goat Was well cooked, the fire sunk lower, casting less light.
‘Hathaway!’ called Ford again.
Ferris had stopped and tethered Morgana to a sapling. The mare standing patiently by while he unlaced his breeches and relieved himself. That done
he climbed again on her back and heeled her forwards. Keeping his eyes open for a sign of the ruined building that the blacksmith had mentioned to them.
It must have been after midnight before he finally saw it, set off the road, near the glittering sheen of a small lake.
He caught the smell of burned meat and then saw the remnants of a fire, glowing feebly in a clearing. The scorched carcass of some animal lay among the embers.
He found Hathaway, Hawks and Ford, floating face-down in the lake.
Dead.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
There was enough light from the moon for him to be able examine the corpses and see the manner of their passing.
Hathaway had been taken, probably from behind, his throat slit deep from ear to ear, the gash black in the moonlight.
Hawks had a mighty bruise in the middle of his temple, as if he had been clubbed. His throat had also been slit.
Ford was the only one of the three men to show any sign of a struggle. There were several cuts across his hands and a slicing blow had removed part of his jaw. Like the other two he had been I killed with an expert’s knife across his neck.
John laid them out in the grass, looking down at the bodies, his face set like stone.
Monk had been ready.
Someone, perhaps the landlord from the village where they’d spent the night or maybe the blacksmith. Someone had betrayed their quest, and carried word to the Witchfinder.
‘Another notch on the tally, Monk,’ he said, eyes like dark gems in the mask of his face.
* * *
For nearly an hour John sat by the ashes of the fire, watching the red sparks shrink and fade. Until all that was left was cold greyness. The meat didn’t tempt him. His mind was locked into what he should do next.
Monk had been ready. Had sent out his killers, probably the gipsy brothers, and had wiped out the three men as easily as crushing an insect beneath the heel of a boot. Now he would be back at his inn, sleeping sound and safe. He would know about Ferris, but would assume that he was elsewhere. And if he’d found the bodies, he was hardly likely to come after Monk on his own.
Was he?
‘Yes,’ said Ferris, nodding decisively. Now was the time. Even alone he might yet take them by surprise. Get in and kill Monk. Quick and silent. Not what he’d hoped for. But better . . . better than nothing at all. Rescue his dear Mary from the villains and away. Perhaps even save some of that two thousand guineas that had been stolen from his home.
Ferris checked his pistol and sword, making sure that Morgana was safely tethered. Setting off without a backward look at the trio of sodden corpses, walking sure-footed towards Cold Easter.
The inn was still and dark. Not a single light showing at any of the leaded windows. There were two large barns attached to the main building, and three or four more outbuildings. From one of the barns John caught the sound of a horse moving restlessly, stamping its feet and whinneying to itself.
Without the benefit of any scouting he had no way of knowing which of the rooms was occupied by Monk. And where the Mendoza brothers were. And, most important, where his darling Mary was.
His feet soundless on the dusty path through the rear garden, he picked his way nearer. Pausing by the first of the sheds. Catching the acrid, ammo
niacal scent of a polecat. Probably where the inn keeper hutched his ferrets. The horse stamped again inside the second of the barns.
Quietly, a step at a time, he moved towards the back door of the inn. Praying that it would be open. As a precaution he drew the sabre.
The wind had finally driven all the clouds from the sky, leaving the hunter’s moon to shine coldly down, sharpening every shadow.
He was level with the first barn. Barely twenty paces from the inn. From one of the rooms he heard the low voice of a man, and a woman’s laugh. He froze, foot still raised, waiting for a light to show that he had been discovered. But there was no further sound and he moved on again.
Ten paces.
Five paces.
He could. . . ‘Move and you’re pig-meat, cully.’
Ferris stood very still, brain racing. Fighting against his own anger at being trapped like this. The lilting voice had a Romany ring to it and he was certain sure that it must be one of the brothers. Which meant that they were sleeping in the barn and not in the ale-house.
‘Turn slow.’
He did as he was bid, finding himself only a few yards from a tall man. Curling hair and the glint of golden ring in his ear. Wearing a shirt and breeches, and holding a blunderbuss, its bell-mouth gaping large as a village well.
‘Who be you, cully?’ asked the man.
‘A traveller, seeking shelter for the night.’
‘It be three after midnight.’
‘My horse threw a shoe and I have walked many miles. Who are you?’
‘Not that it concerns you, but I am Benjamin Mendoza. And I’m about to pull this trigger and blast your lying head clean away from your fuckin’ shoulders.’
‘Why? I have done you no harm?’
Mendoza laughed quietly. ‘You be Ferris. I know yon face. We seen you on Cambridge road. I don’t forget a face, cully. We done for your mates. Now I do for you and get silver from Master Monk.’
‘Would he rather not have me for trial? For putting to the question?’ It was a desperate gamble.
The gipsy hesitated. ‘Mayhap he would. Mayhap he would pay more. He and. . . Throw down that sword, Captain Ferris, if ye please.’
Ferris shifted his grip, holding the sabre near the top of the blade. Mendoza moved the muzzle of the flintlock to cover him. With a great lunge John threw the sword from him, to the side, so that it clattered on the cobbles of the yard, striking a shower of sparks.
Benjamin would not have been human if his eye hadn’t followed the gleaming steel, attracted by the noise and light. By the time that his glance returned to his prisoner, Ferris had moved.
John dived forwards and sideways, hands hitting the dirt, levering with them. His feet kicking out a Mendoza’s legs. One heel catching him with enormous power on the knee-cap. The heel of the boot smashed the delicate joint, splintering the bottom of the femur, rupturing cartilage and displacing the patella. The tiny, crucia
l bone at the very centre of the knee.
The big gipsy toppled away sideways, dropping the gun, screaming in a thin, unnaturally high voice.
Ferris rolled to his feet, looking back at the crippled man. Mary and Joseph! Stay down,’ he panted, seeing Mendoza struggling to rise. But his knee was dribbling apart and he couldn’t make it. Waiting, crouched, face drawn tight in the moonlight. Like a stricken carnivore, even achieving a kind of brutal dignity.
As Ferris started to circle him the gipsy swivelled round, painfully, one hand clutching at his ruined knee. The other fumbling for the dagger that hung at his belt.
‘Come on at me, you fucker! Come on, bugger your eyes! I’ll cut your fuckin’ eyes out. Come on!!’
The last gamble was inevitable, and doomed to a pathetic failure. Knowing that John Ferris need only to draw the pistol from his hip and put a ball through his head, Benjamin tried to throw the knife at him. But he was off balance, clumsy, and the blade hissed a yard past John’s throat, burying itself in the wood of the shed behind him.
‘You’re dead, Mendoza. First you, then your evil master.’
There was the noise of voices from the barn, and he guessed that time was running out. And a light at the casement where he’d heard the man and woman. The pistol would have been too easy and impersonal. He wanted contact as the man died.
‘Then I will save my Mary.’
There was something like surprise in the doomed man’s eyes and his mouth opened. ‘You call her. . .‘ he began.
‘I do not have the time,’ interrupted John.
Without giving the least warning he stepped quickly in and kicked out at the gypsy. His toe catching Benjamin full under the base of his hooked nose. His head started to snap back from the violence of the impact, but the boot was still moving faster.
The gristle and bone near the top of Mendoza’s nose was crushed first and the splinters were forced back deep between the eyes until some of them reached the frontal lobes of his brain. Before the curly hair at the back of his head cracked into the cobbles behind him, Benjamin Mendoza was dying.